Wednesday, January 12, 2011

Well, here goes...

When I told my husband I was going to start a blog, he said, “Ok, but what’s your hook? Why would people want to read about YOU?” Well, aside from his resounding lack of confidence in my new endeavor, he made a good point.

So, I started thinking about it. Well, I’m a mom. Though, there are lots of other moms out there; plenty who have two, three, ten kids – and I’m sure they know more about being a mom than I do. Alright, I like to do crafts. Or should I rephrase: I like to TRY to do crafts. Ok, I cook. But I’m by no means a chef. 90% of the time I can make a passable meal for my family. I bake, I aspire to be a gardener, I cloth diaper, I knit, I breastfeed. I like to save money, and I think I’m pretty frugal. I consider myself mostly a stay-at-home mom, though I do moonlight at an office job. I do my part to reduce my carbon footprint and be eco-friendly. But I’ll be honest, I’m not an expert at any of those things.

I’ve come to the conclusion, though, that maybe the hook isn’t so important. I want to write about, to share, and to remember my life. If I can strike a chord that resonates with someone else out there, I’ll be thrilled. 
But if it doesn’t? If nobody reads this blog? In the end, it doesn’t matter. I’m chronicling my life, my relationship, and my motherhood. Some day when I’m old and my life’s memories are like Swiss cheese, I’ll have something to fill in the holes with.

Two things you should know about me: I’m Italian, and I live in Nevada (hence the Spaghetti Westerner). In reality, I am only about one-eighth Italian, and my husband often reminds me that I’m “as much French, German or American for that matter” as I am Italian. But I’ve chosen to embrace my Italian roots. I love wine. I love pasta. I love tomatoes. I talk with my hands. I enjoy the loudest parts of my family most. I identify best with my Italian self: so I’m Italian. (Besides, my Grandpa, who is actually Italian, once told me that I am his favorite grandchild because I am the most Italian of us grandkids.)

While I may not be a real Italian, I am a real Nevadan. Born and raised. Crystal clear, wide open blue skies; drab colors like “sage” and “sand” as far as the eye can see; counting more cows than people on drives across the state; a place where “off-roading” is a genuine past-time: home truly does mean Nevada to me. (It also just so happens that my husband and my son were also born in Nevada, which makes us legit as far as I’m concerned.)

So, I’m Mama Spaghetti. I’m married to an ever-practical engineer, Mr. Spaghetti. I’m known as “mom” by my one happy son, Little Spaghetti, and my hilariously cute, half-breed Spaghetti Dog. This is my place to share, to think, and to vent about my hopes, my sadness, my joys, and my frustrations about my (not terribly unique) life as a mom and a wife. I don’t intend to censor myself very much. I can’t promise I won’t use foul language or over-share sometimes. If that sounds alright to you, then welcome. I hope you enjoy your stay.

-Mama Spaghetti

P.S. I am aware that “Spaghetti Western” refers to something vastly different than what I’ve described above. While I appreciate this specific sub-genre of 1960’s Western films as much as the next guy, I am no Spaghetti Western aficionado, nor do I claim any affiliation with them…let’s just accept this as my attempt at being clever, can we?

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